


Not-Thinking

by cynthia_arrow (thesilverarrow)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/cynthia_arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's cranky after a mission; John un-crankies him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not-Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted many, many moons ago on livejournal. I'm simply archiving it here. Thanks to lj user kashmir1 for the beta.

Rodney's been ranting for so long now John would fear for his ability to breathe…if he didn't know him better. Rodney's all vague hand gestures and obvious sarcasm and litanies of John's past sins—you know, the worst kind, the ones that involve him unselfishly saving someone's life; sometimes Rodney's, actually—and John's just standing there, leaning up against the back of the door, frozen in the spot he's been in since Rodney pulled him into the lab and just…went off.  
  
It happens, periodically, now that they're in this weird relationship thing. John thinks of it as an overflow of stress and panic and, well, concern. He's done it from time to time himself, although with John it usually involves less ranting and more hard fucking and marking Rodney up with his teeth. But just because he knows why Rodney's doing it, that doesn't mean he enjoys dealing with it.   
  
What really gets him this time is how today was nothing out of the ordinary. Sure, he got knocked on the head, but a concussion is no big deal. It's just a dull headache, and even that wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for this latest version of Rodney's shrill you're-a-moron-and-a-martyr-you-reckless-dumbass routine. Overall, nothing catastrophic went wrong, and for a mission gone bad in the Pegasus galaxy, that made for a good day.   
  
Still, there's Rodney growing red in the face and eyes widening until he's apparently trying to communicate things simply with waggles of his eyebrows and scowls, because his speech is devolving into that thing he does when his brain goes too fast and he eventually gives up on trying to sort it out for anyone else. Funny, but that normally happens when they're in the middle of a crisis, not afterward. In fact, as John watches him, he thinks that this is about the time that if the mission wasn't already over—and the lab wasn't empty save the two of them—he'd be bellowing to everyone to get the hell out of his way and let him save the day,  _a_ -gain,  _as_  usual.   
  
"Hello," John mutters under his breath. "Genius here."  
  
Rodney stops mid-thought, maybe even mid-word. "What?"  
  
"McKay," he says, shaking his head at himself and trying not to smile. "I could do this routine in my sleep by now. In fact, I could put on a one-man show: The Most Put-Upon Genius in Two Galaxies. Featuring long rambling speeches on useless underlings and stupidly heroic boyfriends with roguish good looks and impressive hair."  
  
"I  _so_  would not say  _roguish_ ," he huffs. "And as for your hair, I—"  
  
"Rodney," he says, tone sliding from amused to serious so fast it makes Rodney's mouth close and his eyes widen. "What in God's name is your problem?"  
  
Rodney opens his mouth again, and it freezes like that. It's actually kind of cute, the confusion. Finally, he says, "I was just—"  
  
"No," John says, putting his hand up. "I expect this when somebody shoots me or tries to hack off a body part or attempts to lay alien eggs behind my kneecaps or something. But what's got you so…?" He makes one of Rodney's own vague hand gestures. "Today, I mean."  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You don't know?" he says, incredulous.  
  
His mouth screws up into a frown, which turns to a confused grimace. "I really, really….don't."  
  
"What? There some autopilot part of your brain that does things without your telling it to?"  
  
"No," he snaps. "Definitely not. It's just that I was…angry, I guess."  
  
"And…by angry you mean  _worried_?"  
  
"You were almost—"  
  
"Annoyed to death by a herd of midget prairie goats?"  
  
Rodney frowns even more. He huffs, "Well, when you say it like that…"  
  
"Riiight."  
  
"And they're unclassified bovines. Probably not midgets, either, which is a distinction based not on size but on proportion of musculature and you'd want someone who's not, oh, an  _astrophysicist_  to make that kind of determination. And they're definitely not goats."  
  
"Definitely?"  
  
"Probably," he retorts. "Once again, not a xenobiologist."  
  
"Okay. Not-goats. Got it. But, look—I'm fine. Got a headache and I have to stay up for a few more hours, but otherwise I'm good. You'll keep me company, right?"  
  
At his question, Rodney nods at him perfunctorily and mutters something about someone having a new movie that doesn't look like too godawful boring. Then he goes, as if mechanically, over to one of the white boards and begins pondering over a series of equations. Maybe, just maybe, Rodney's bad mood doesn't even have anything to do with him anymore; maybe it never did. It would be a relief if the ranting period were over and this was just McKay being McKay, venting his adrenaline and then diving right back into the science.   
  
But as he makes a move to go out the door, Rodney suddenly says, "I shot one."  
  
"What?"  
  
"One of those…goat-like things. It knocked you down, and I sort of panicked and shot it."  
  
"Okay," John says, but he feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.   
  
"It's not funny."  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"I'm serious."  
  
"I know," John replies, desperate not to sound like he's mocking him. He thinks he mostly succeeds in flattening down his smirk. "It's a good thing," he says with a nod. "Means you've got good instincts for the field."  
  
"Shooting anything that looks like it's trying to hurt you, even if it's a defenseless…not-goat? Now you're patronizing me."  
  
"No," John says, moving toward him, anxious to somehow smooth down the flutter of his hands, stop the embarrassed, self-pitying thing hunching his shoulders. But he doesn't. He only steps into Rodney's personal space, just hovering, waiting.   
  
Rodney says, "You're just being all smug because you think—"  
  
John lays his finger against Rodney's lips and leans in close. "Okay, so you can only do one at a time: bitching or kissing."  
  
Rodney actually looks at him like he's having to make an effort at deciding. But then he finally mumbles, "Kissing," in resignation against John's finger.  
  
"Good," John says, laying a hand on his neck, sweeping his thumb over Rodney's cheek, and leaning in to catch his lips.   
  
Rodney opens to it instantly, almost as though he's ready to prove him wrong about being able to bitch and kiss at the same time, like he's pressing on with the argument—only now with his tongue, the way it thrusts inside, and with the way he's taking over, both of his hands suddenly on John's neck. Though the kiss is wet and halfway combative, it quickly turns deep and sweet, or at least as sweet as Rodney can get when he’s trying to prove a point. Earnest, John muses, as Rodney licks his way inside his mouth, maybe earnest is a better word, not that he’d ever say that to Rodney’s face.  
  
Rodney kisses him long enough to make it seem like it had been his idea, then he almost ceremonially releases him from the kiss, still with that undercurrent of  _moron_  and even less distinct but no less absolutely present  _was so worried_.  
  
Rodney keeps his body close as his hands fall down to John's waist.   
  
John says, "I really meant what I said. It's a good thing. Someday, somebody'll try to get a shot off on me and it'll be you that stops them." Rodney looks a little queasy, finally letting go and backing off a bit, but he just nods. John turns and begins to spin away from him. If he doesn't, he'll grab him and… Actually, he doesn't even know what he might do. John adds, "It's just like what I do every time we go on a mission: watch your back."  
  
"Because I'm the scientist."  
  
John rolls his eyes to himself and smiles. "Because I'm team leader. Because I'm trained to. Because because because."  
  
"I killed a not-goat!"  
  
"Why is that freaking you out so much? Nobody here—or there—cares. There were hundreds, and they weren't sacred or anything. Actually, they were really pretty awful."  
  
Rodney's about to retort something—of course he is—so John just turns and steps back over to him, grabs him by the hips, and pulls him close again, kissing him hard like a warning. Rodney gives an indignant sigh that turns to a genuine whimper of pleasure as his body sinks into John's. This is nothing new either.   
  
When he pulls out of the kiss, John looks him in the eyes and quirks an eyebrow, questioning.   
  
Rodney frowns at him and then says quickly, "I think I killed a poor innocent not-goat because I care more about  _you_  than thinking, sometimes."  
  
The words seem to practically hang in the air, like they echo or something, at least to John's ears. It takes Rodney a second longer to hear the echoing, apparently, but when he does, his eyes narrow.  
  
John says, "You sure you don't wanna take that back?"   
  
"Uh…" Rodney takes a deep breath, then, resolutely, he says, "No."  
  
The full force of that reply makes John warm all over but halfway jittery. Then it makes him reflexively smirk and try to bring things back around to something light again.  
  
"But you don't mean it," John says with a chuckle. "For crying out loud, you do equations sometimes when we're fucking."  
  
"I do-- Seriously? Out loud?"  
  
"Occasionally. I've learned to be turned on by polynomial algebra."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Occupational hazard." John smiles, but suddenly Rodney rests his forehead against his, and John's chest pulls back against his breath.   
  
"It's not care, exactly," Rodney says, almost in a whisper. "It's not that I  _care_  about you more than thinking. It's that I…" The rest of his words come out in a rush, but John hears each one perfectly. "…I love you and it makes me forget to want to think as clearly as I should sometimes." He sucks in a breath, then frowns and quickly adds, "I mean, not when thinking counts. 'Cause when it does, you know that I'm—"  
  
John kisses him again. He can't help it. He can't seem to quite make his arms work, so he's just clutching at Rodney, and Rodney's clutching right back, and the way they're tangled up together is maybe a little awkward but John doesn't fucking care. He's just on the verge of shoving Rodney back onto the table behind them when he forces himself to calm down, pull back, stop acting just as fucking clingy as Rodney is. Just as freaked out. Why should he be? This is just Rodney. Rodney saying… He swallows hard.  
  
Rodney's whole body is still frozen there, resting against his, waiting. "Okay, Jesus, say something."  
  
John grins against his neck. "Something."  
  
"John."  
  
"Shut up," he says, shifting so he can look Rodney in the eye. "Shut up and remember how many 'diplomatic crises' we've been in because I didn't like the way somebody shook your hand or talked to you or…looked at you."  
  
Rodney regards him seriously, taking it in but there's still a question on his face. Then he puts on his cranky face again and says, "Dammit, I said it, so you have to say it."  
  
John mumbles, "But we don't have any not-goats to sacrifice for the occasion."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Shutting."  
  
"Except for the L word part."  
  
"What are you, fourteen?"  
  
Rodney glares at him, but underneath the glaring he sees a glimmer of uncertainty and…betrayal? This, he thinks—this is why they don't talk about this shit.   
  
John sighs, scrambling for words. Something similar to what Rodney said, maybe. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he says, "You know, this"—he gestures between them—"it makes me remember to think a hell of a lot more clearly than I normally would. Before I do things, I mean. Every day." His face screws up into a wry smile. "Up to and including trying to figure out which systems run on the trig you're mumbling when I'm fucking you into the mattress."  
  
"Heating," Rodney replies quickly. "Always heating." He cocks his head to one side. "Or I suppose it could be ventilation."  
  
"Rodney?"  
  
"Yeah?" He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Sorry." When he focuses on John's face again, he's smiling expectantly.  
  
John takes a deep breath. "The L word. It's… You know, I get it."  
  
Rodney smiles, and everything pauses, quiet and heavy, for just a second. Soon, though, he begins his rambling again, this time the grousing more affectionate than actually annoyed: "What a sweet talker you are, Colonel Sheppard. Although I suppose that's what I get for falling for a military man. Always the strong, silent type…which, after all, isn't so bad. I mean, you've got other nice qualities. Not that any of your qualities are bad, per se, it's just—"  
  
"Shut up," John says against Rodney's lips as he kisses him again.  
  
Rodney sighs into it and twines all his limbs about John's happily.  _Shutting_ , he might as well be saying.   
  
It's about damn time, John thinks. If he's thinking at all.


End file.
